I watched my own son flinch at the word “medication” like it cost more than my life, his eyes sliding toward the cupboard where they kept the “good” coffee I wasn’t allowed to touch. His wife’s laughter—sharp, practiced, cruel—bounced off the kitchen tiles as she told me Walmart was always hiring greeters “who like to stand around.” Shame rose like acid in my throat, three years of swallowed pride hardening into something sharper, colder. Their kids stared at their plates, already learning what love costs and who isn’t worth the price. My fingers brushed the folded lottery ticket in my pock… Continues…
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